


Colors

by whosyourmaster



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Comfort, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Massage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tumblr Prompt, World War II, the kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5557892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whosyourmaster/pseuds/whosyourmaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of prompts given to me by the community. Involving everything from Gabby being fabulous, Napoleon being a child and Illya not doing things the russian way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue

He had beaten them. He was better. He has made himself better than this and he’d be damned if he let the actions of an “unremarkable” doctor bring back those terrors. The chair itself was rather insignificant, a bloody nose and ruined shirt was little damage, considering. The burning of that “plain” man however; the thick stench of burnt flesh was something else entirely. It had crawled out from under the door and surrounded the two comrades. A choking smoke that curled around the air, tricking its victims into taking heavy breaths. Curling up in the pit of one’s stomach to stay for hours to follow. Long after the screams of pain dulled to a dim heartbeat in ones ears. Nothing could ever truly mask the smell. No perfume, booze, smelling salts or cigarettes could hide the truly human quality of burnt flesh. It was one of a lesson you learned that no one chose to teach you in the army.

The lights were off as the early afternoon sun streamed in through the curtains. The excitable energy from the open aired market was coming through the open window. Along with the scents of turkish coffee, thick spices, floral hookah breathe and burning meat. Lamb and pork being rolled over fire pits for tourist passing by, peddling off the “old world” style of life. The room was empty except for the partially well dressed man, pressed against the foot of the bed upon the floor. Nervous mumbles leaking from his lips.

Illya knocked on the hotel door to Napoleon and Gaby’s honeymoon suite. The hallway was fairly empty, most likely the designers trying to give some added privacy for their clientele to the room. Their chop shop girl was out, keeping up appearances as an affluent heiress, but Cowboy and him had to set up their plans for the evening. A hefty bit of uranium, mixed in with opium shipments, had been reported to pass through a local millionaires hotel chain. They had decided to pay the backrooms a visit after the sun went down. Banging once again brought no one to the door. With a grumbled russian curse, he fished out the extra key Gaby had given him, incase of emergencies. Lord save Solo’s soul if he was still asleep. He and Gaby had been out, perusing the nightlife, which just happened to drop them off at the aforementioned mogul’s hotel bar. Their loud galavanting being broadcasted perfectly through Illya’s bug all night long. Keeping them all up into the early morning hours.

The lock gave way and he pressed his large frame through the door. The room was dark and silent. The kind of silent though, that left you knowing you weren’t alone. Like you could feel another person breathing, even if you couldn’t hear it. closing the door with a quite click he wrapped his fingers around the small pistol in the holster. The breeze made and curtains flutter, catching his attention for half a second with their movement. It only took a second more to notice Solo curled up on the ground.

His hands were knotted in his hair, a stark white agains his oil slick strands. ruffled from its usual perfection it fell across his forehead and knees as he curled in tighter. His breath was shallow and rushed, like breathing was an unwanted habit he was trying to break. Harsh words would escape between harsher inhales, a mixture of foreign languages blending together. Illya couldn’t see his eyes but he knew what they would be doing. Darting back and forth, seeing things no one else could. He was stuck in a flashback.

“Cowboy, It is me. How are you doing?” Napoleon’s body pressed harder into the foot of the bed as nothing but a shuddering breath answered him. The grip in his hair turned more painful, the tight pull on his ankles revealing small fractured ridges. kneeling down to get a better look, Illya could just make out the blank features on Napoleon’s face. Completely blank, as his body expressed all the pain through its tension while his face seemed to have lost the ability to use.

“Move over. You are hurting yourself.” He said, pushing Solo forward. Away from the foot of the bed, that’s ornate carving was surely digging patterns into his spine. Slotting himself in the small space formed, he unzipped his jacket.

“I am going to touch you now Cowboy.” He stated, waiting a moment however for an answer, it is unwise to touch a person that deep in a flashback. the scar by his right eye could attest to that pretty easily. When he received a small nod he grabbed the edges of the jacket. Placing his palms against Solo’s chest. He pushed the smaller man’s back to his front. With a bit of awkward shimming he managed to uncurl Cowboy and wrap his arms around him. His own hands tugging the edges of his worn leather jacket around the two of them.

Napoleon’s breathing started to get deeper as the smell of worn leather and Russian grit filled his nostrils. They settled the beast that was resting in his belly, loosening its talons that had locked on with the first breathes of burning meat. The images started to fade at the edges as an opulent room came back into focus. He brushed his fingers along the silk lining of the coat, an overly fancy touch for a communist his inner voice snarked. Happy nonetheless to feel the smooth silk rather than the chard dirt like his mind wanted to believe was there.

“I have questions for you. Speak if you know answers.” Peril’s deep voice vibrated in the space around his jacket, setting deep into Solo’s skin. He hummed in ascent, closing his eyes. Ilya’s shoulder was there to meet the back of his head as his neck gave out under the pressure in his brain. The pressure of seeing so much of life in such short time.

“How many pairs of shoes does Gaby have in closet?” With reluctance he opened his eyes, looking to the side, his hair grazing Illya’s jaw, towards the closet. Chunky ash started to shift back into the overpriced footwear that truly inhabited the room. Piles of striped covered bodies turning back into fancy black and and cream flats.

“Four.”

“What is on the painting in the other room.” He closed his eyes again as they started to water, a blurry image coming to the forefront of his mind.

“A nude woman with peacock feather fan and turban. Cheap replica of original.”

“How many windows does this room have.”

“6, plus balcony door.” As the questions were rattled off in a thick accent the images started to melt away. Being tucked back into that box no one chooses to open but is always left ajar in one’s mind.

“What is color of paint?” Came the final question. He looked to the walls, a soft blue color. Yet the more he stared the more the image started to change. Along the edges pitch black smoke started to form, bodies started to pile up and incinerator flames licked at his vision. The stench was back, clawing at his stomach. Thick, rancid, with promises of pain and fear. He pressed backwards as if to avoid the feeling, only for it to drag along with his gut. A wall of pure fire met his back, burning past his nerves and setting his entirety alight.

“Focus. What color?” Illya ordered, trying to entice the soldiers response that is hammered into any man of service. The colors started to bleed together as his body heat rose. Stifling, but never burning, like the sauna that he had dragged Gaby to several days prior. Thick and controlling yet in the best of ways. The kind of way the could be off putting yet completely comforting at the same time. The iron arms gripped tightened around his torso. The tighter they got the more the smell of leather filled his senses. The more leather he smelled the more blue he started to see.

“What color, Napoleon?”

“Blue.”

“Good. Good job.” He said softly, into a black hair against his chin. A damp patch started to form on his shoulder as small sniffs replaced the shattered breaths. Soon They evened out completely, giving way to light snoring that filled the space between them. They sat there for some time, well into the falling of the sun. Well into Gaby having returned from shopping with worried looks but the wits to know not to bother with questions. Breezing past in the way only women could, she closed the windows and placed an order with room service. Ordering only dishes that had no cooked meats in it.

That night, with the sun set. Illya set out for the hotel, donning his all black attire, minus his ever present jacket. Tonight it was wrapped tight around Solo as he laid in bed, breathing in the rich scent of leather, blue and home.


	2. Brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya has to "Kiss" Napoleon to save them in a tight situation.

“Why can’t you keep your hands to yourself!?” a great snarl came from behind. A cool breeze rolled across the room as the draft pushed the curtains around the window. Good and sturdy, vintage 1901 mahogany single pane. All original parts, even the lock that was laughably easy to pick. More decorative than functional in this modern age. It would be an almost calming sight if it wasn’t for the infernal screaming of an alarm system. the loud beeping  rang in his ears making him want to cover them with his leather clad hands. If only he didn’t have an iron curtain grip around his wrist.

 

“You must admit though, Peril, they are a charming set of earrings.” He replied cheekily, opening up his fist to show the chandelier pair, dripping in clear and yellow diamonds. Say what you may about the owners dubious business but the lady of this home had a true eye for beautiful things. “Not to mention this matching necklace. I think they will look fantastic on Gabby.” He went on needling, feeling the grip tighten.

 

“You are like child. Hurry up Cowboy.” With a tug they both started running down the dark hallway. As they passed the windows bright lights and black clothed men scrambled to rush to their designated location. Setting up to arrest the idiots that decided to enter the property. What was usually over projection from the local rowdy teens was now the problem of the new U.N.C.L.E. agents. Solo felt the bones in his wrist rub roughly together under the tight pull of his partner. Gun in one hand and solo in the other, his leather clad shoulder covering the view of the destination, if there was any. They barreled down the dark hall, dim light of the night flashing across them as they passed the windows. They turned down a seemingly random series of corners, angry russian curses spouting out of his partner the whole way. 

 

Just as the sound of heels and guns started to fill the space behind them, they turned one more time and slammed the door shut. Of all spaces they had to squeeze into a supply closet. The shelves were lined in an assortment of supplies; bags, ropes, chemicals and spades. A Pair of muddy coveralls hung from the door and the stench of mulch caked boots filled the space. The gardeners mud room, probably a good sign that an exit was near, if only the rushing sound of feet would dissipate, indicating vacancy in the hall. The space was limited and felt like it was getting tighter, at least with the pressing glare he felt on his neck. 

 

“Child.” Came the gruff remark as he felt the grip leave his wrist, bloody quickly rushing back to his fingers. “I should punish like the child you are.”

 

“Feeling feisty this evening Peril?”

 

“ po'shyol 'na hui. you got us into this, you find way out.” He turned to inspect the coveralls. They clearly belonged to a large built man, the ankles of the uniform brushing the floor even from its hanger. The russian inspected it before shooting a glance at napoleon’s feet. Glancing down he saw, tucked away on the lowest shelf, several rolls of black plastic bags. Looking back up he could see the thinly veiled look of the wheels turning in that blonde giants head. Silent, he pulled down the mud caked denim and bend down to place his legs inside. once he zipped up the front he turned to look at his american comrade expectantly. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get inside bag.”

 

“Excuse me?” Napoleon questioned, actually managing to feel slightly surprised.

 

“Get in bag or I will make you.” Came the thick russian threat. 

 

“Can’t do my friend, just wait, maybe I can find another way.” He said, turning to scan the shelves, hoping to find another answer. Outside of poisoning themselves with pesticides there seemed to be limited options. He could feel the heat of a new glare start to bore into his neck, warming his flesh as if it could be cooked. The sound of heavy breathing came brushing behind his ears, filling his space with the noise of Illya’s used breathe. He was eyeing a pair of worn brown leather gloves when he suddenly heard the soft whoosh of air moving and felt nothing but black.

 

__________________________________________________________________________

 

He felt almost nothing, not an uncommon feeling but this one was so encompassing all it could elicit was a confusion. His limbs felt like they had ceased to exist and his head felt like it had been buried in 9 feet of clouds. The muffled sound of Nina Simon came through, what was muffling it was the next curiosity. White just this side of brown greeted him when he opened his eyes. An ill conceived decision as his head dropped from the clouds and split upon the cold ground. He felt more than heard the groan coming from his throat, trying to raise a hand to check his head for cracks. He felt every joint, bone and muscle crack as he moved his arm, he never did realize how many were in a single human arm.

 

“You will ache for minutes.” His russian comrade said from the foot of the bed, where he was perched with Solo’s foot in his hand. As soon as he saw that it was as if his brain instantly connected to his feet. Feeling every warm rough rub of thumbs against his base. He could feel the textured friction and pushed deep into his flesh, trying to remove strain with brute force. As his senses began to clear he felt the grip upon his foot change as finger slotted between toes and tugged. Loud crack and sharp twinge filled the room. His own groan following after as relief settled in.

 

“What are you doing?” His voice sounded rougher than usual.

 

“Massaging away the pain. Fastest way to cure kiss.” The rough warm hands started a slow ascent. Wrapping around Solo’s ankles and slowly rotating them.

 

“Cure with a kiss sounds better.”

 

“Don’t push Cowboy. you still deserve punishment for being a child.” Curt and to the point. Yet even with the reminder Illya’s hands never stopped his ministrations on Napoleon's muscles. Working up his calf to his knees, slowly feeling started follow behind the wide hands. 

 

“If you are going to mother me Peril you might as well call me Napoleon as well.” A strong grip cupped his knee and ankle, twisting and pushing. At first he felt muscles stretch in a pleasant way that was wholly welcome. Slowly with each push and pull left and right, illya twisted his knee farther. Suddenly the bones caught, just for a second. Just enough time for you to catch your breathe before grinding past each other in a loud crack. “I thought this was suppose to heal me.” Napoleon gasped out in surprise.

 

“It is. You were just being child again.” As if his body was conspiring alongside the russian a wave of blessed relaxation filled his joints. Traitor.

 

“You like to call me that. Is it a new nickname?” Well even if he couldn’t trust the rest of himself, at least his mouth would remain true to his dignity. 

 

“It is descriptor, Cowboy.” The conversation fell off from there. leaving the air open for Gabby’s music and the slow climb of Illyas hands. rubbing away the numb feeling from Solo’s hands, arms, back and shoulders. Everywhere those hands went a crack of relief followed.

 

“You sit up.” Even as the command was barked out, gentle hands helped pull solos torso up and place two more plush pillows behind. even as his head rose slowly it felt like his brain was being swung against the walls of his skull. Tied to some pendulum and dropped. Suddenly whites became brighter and the music began to echo. “How is head?”

 

“Like I’ve been mauled by a Russian bear.” His brilliant wit was ignored, like always, as a great pair of paws gripped the base of his head. Strong fingers started the trace circles on both sides of his spine. Napoleon felt his eyes start to roll back as the light lessened. He felt comfortably trapped, even as the weight of his head fell back onto those calloused hands. It felt safe, warm. like dropping your head underwater and their is nothing but your thoughts, the warm water and the sound of your heart rippling the waves. Colors started to form in the darkness of his eyelids, flashing so fast that you couldn't even remember what color they were but just that they happened. His mouth finally becoming traitorous and letting a groan out.

 

“Feeling better?” The thick accent came in, bringing fireworks of golden brown behind his eyes.

 

“Mmmm.”

  
“Good. Now let’s talk about punishment. Those who act like children, get punished like children. get over my knee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much Thanks to Ravengirl1011 for the prompt. I hope you like it! And to those of you interested in prompting, my message box is open so send them my way. Happy New Year Lovelies.

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a Prompt from Tumblr, originally and art prompt but it was so inspiring that I had to write a story. If you like what you read and have a story prompt you'd like to see come true, send me a message and I can see what I can do. Have a good end of the year Lovelies.


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